Last spring I walked a 100 – kilometre pilgrimage called St. Cuthbert’s Way. I left Melrose in Scotland on a Tuesday morning and by the weekend I had reached the tiny island of Lindisfarne off the coast of England. It was a journey I undertook alone, on trails that were almost entirely bereft of travellers. It was quite an adventure.
I began in the ruins of Melrose abbey where Cuthbert started his life as a monk. My very first steps on the trail were in beautiful sunshine, and everything sparkled in the morning light. But I was no more than a few steps along when I discovered that it was not all sweetness and light. I had to stop often to huff and puff on the huge hills, a pattern that would repeat itself every single day. The only people I met were a nice couple walking ahead of me.
Around seven in the evening, I realized I was in trouble. I still had hours to go but I had all but run out of water and I was hungry. I could feel a blister forming on my right foot. My iPod ran out of batteries. My map fell out of my backpack pocket. My ankles began to complain about the squishy mud. My hip joined the chorus. A headache capped it off.
Finally, sore and spent, I called ahead to my hotel. That’s when I began to feel like a character in the Good Samaritan story. My hosts were concerned I hadn’t had supper (I was too exhausted to eat) and made sure I at least had fruit and biscuits. In the morning, they arranged for my heavy pack to be picked up and taken to each hotel for the next few days so I wouldn’t have to carry it. Then they took me to a shop where I could buy a new map and some lunch.
On day two, I was tired and sore with a fresh crop of blisters. An overcast day turned to rain. When I stopped for lunch, I met the couple walking ahead of me again. They offered to loan me a cell phone if I didn’t have one and I was moved by their thoughtfulness.
I walked into the evening, stiff and soaked. In the darkness a little blue car stopped, and a man with his family offered to drive me the last mile of my journey. How could there possibly be so many warm, hospitable people in the world willing to help a complete stranger?
On day three, I got lost. Although the trail is well marked, I must have been daydreaming and taken a wrong turn.
I was lost in the Cheviot Hills where there are no sheep, no fences, no trees, no landmarks. It was hard not to panic.
I looked for familiar patterns in the brush, knee – deep in scrubby heather. I retraced my steps until I came to the familiar SCW symbol on a wooden post. I saw the footprints of my two friends travelling ahead of me and was flooded with relief. They had just been here!
By then my feet were a mess and my muscles so weak that I looked like a drunken sailor wobbling along narrow paths and over stone fences. My warm bed in Wooler could not have been more welcomed.
Day four was clear and sunny. Now in the rhythm of walking, I revelled in the hours of uninterrupted time to think, talk to God out loud, sing camp songs, and listen to the birds. I stepped into Cuthbert’s Cave where monks found refuge when fleeing from the Viking raids. When I came over the crest of a hill and caught my first glimpse of Lindisfarne, part of me was relieved (my feet, mostly!), but part of me was disappointed that my journey would end so soon. That evening, I gladly received the help of yet another kind soul—a woman who drove me along a dangerous stretch of major highway.
And then it was my last day. When I reached the sea, a man with two black labradors pointed the way of the pilgrim route across the sands. I took off my shoes and socks, and stepped onto the sandy ocean floor. Suddenly I was halfway to my knees in black, sticky mud. I toppled to one side, managing to smear my legs, pants, jacket and hands with dirt. I laughed out loud at myself and tried to rinse off.
On the island, I rested with water and a biscuit. I had been alone in my own world for days. Now I would return to community.
For generations, Christians have undertaken pilgrimages as an act of faithfulness or in search of a deeper experience of God. St. Cuthbert’s Way was painful and months later my toes are still recovering. Still, nowhere else have I discovered myself and my God in such profound ways. Each day held fresh beauty and unexpected gifts, and I would do it again in a heartbeat, blisters and all.
